Armed Only with Garlic-Breath and a Bad Attitude

It's the hap-happiest time of the year.

I know everyone is angry about ramps again this year. Last year we were mad because everyone makes such a big deal out of them. This year we're mad because we're like, diminishing our biodiversity, man. With all due respect, I love you all very much, but please shut up and just let me eat my onions.

Politics and Artichokes

Indulge me. I'm having a moment of philosophical weakness. It doesn't happen very often and I promise to reward you, somehow, later, for putting up with it. I need to talk to you guys about politics. Not American politics, not office politics, not even really food politics exactly (I promise not to talk about Michael Pollan right now), but more the politics of how we think about, talk about and own food. I've had a few conversations in the recent past that have really set me to thinking.

The first was with my uncle Mitch last week. Mitch is one of my favorite people to eat with. He's a trained chef - out of professional kitchens now - but always putting his skills to good use for friends, family and the occasional competition. He's also a fucking grump, which is what makes me like him so much. While in the midst of an excellent blogging project on eGullet with a few friends, he invited me over to participate in their "mystery basket" challenge. While we chopped, snacked and sipped - as always - on a cocktail or two, we got into a conversation about cooks, chefs and the way we define them.

Happiness is Your First Salad Spinner

I know it sounds silly. But, I'd never had one before. And now that I do, my life is forever changed.

Spin Class (caption and photo via Sidekick)

Here's the thing. I have always loved to eat vegetables. Always. When I was a kid I routinely chose apples and berries over cake and cookies and I will always choose pickles over - well, most things. So when I say to you that I really like to eat salad, please do not gawk. Or balk. Or... ruffle. I like to eat salad as a counterpoint to something deviously rich and luscious. Like a bowl of cream-rich bisque, or a cheeseburger with pimento cheese on top, or a piece of mushroom and green chile pizza, slicked with a thin layer of orange grease that drips down your wrist while you eat it.

On How to Like Things

There are very few things in this world that I don't like to eat. I hate rice pudding. I think the combination of strawberry and banana should be stricken from existence forever. If I never tasted or smelled Bailey's Irish Creme again, it would be too soon. I've had to wrack my brain for these.

Mostly, I was born this way. I ate whatever my parents ate and my parents ate VERY well. But, it's also taken a lot of work. When I identify something I don't really like, I do my best to try it a variety of different ways - multiple times - and usually I come around. I can now say that I happily eat cumin (within reason), I now have an occasional craving for a tuna fish sandwich and I can say without reserve that I am fully ready to try sea urchin again.

via Summer Tomato, Flickr

Which brings me to fiddlehead ferns. I didn't think I liked them. In fact, I really didn't care about them at all. Fiddlehead ferns pop up in our markets and kitchens every early spring, along with the other spring harbingers everyone is always talking about, morels, peas and ramps. If you've never tasted one, it's sort of like a slightly bitter, wild-tasting asparagus. My trouble with them has been that because of their adorable, tightly curled spiral shape, they're almost never cleaned properly, usually undercooked for my taste and I find myself guiltily pushing them around on my plate every spring. Especially since I refuse to like something just because I SHOULD.

I know what you're thinking. "Uh, dude, it's September. We're kind of past fiddlehead season, aren't we?" Yes. We are. Or so I thought.


Yeah. That's what you think it is. A jar of sour pickled fiddlehead ferns, procured from the new and amazing Brooklyn Farmacy, which I can't wait to tell you about later. These guys hail from VoterVale Farm in Avon, Maine and I just don't know how to thank them enough.

I know that I'm so predictable, but it turns out that pickling these suckers is the secret for me. The vinegar bath and processing tenderize them just right and give them a slightly fermented, caper-ish, almost white-wine-like flavor that I absolutely can't get enough of.


The other great thing about them? See all those mustard seeds swimming around in there with them? The shape of the ferns sort of acts like a natural scoop for those guys, trapping them in their inner coils and transporting them directly to your mouth.


In addition to eating them greedily, straight out of the jar, I've also been using them anywhere I'd use capers or olives, like the fiddlehead pesto crudo I drizzled on top of a risotto cake and a sunny-side-up egg last weekend.

Pickled Fiddlehead Pesto Crudo

2 garlic cloves
1/2 cup grated Parmesean
10 - 12 pickled fiddleheads, finely chopped
3 cups packed basil leaves, finely chopped
4 tablespoons olive oil

Grate garlic cloves on a fine micro-plane into a small bowl. Add fiddleheads, basil leaves, salt and pepper. Bash with cocktail muddler until the basil is just bruised and releasing some oil. Stir in the Parmesean and olive oil and let sit while you prepare whatever you will drizzle this over to make more delicious.

Reflections on Ramp Season

So guys, you know I love these things, right?


If you don't, there's a good chance that we've never spoken. Or that you've never been to the beach with me. As I have one pretty conspicuously tattooed on my ribs. (Sorry ancestors and grandmas.)


I went characteristically ramp-crazy this spring, but noticed that while nearly everyone I know has been forced to try them in my presence and (I hope) enjoyed them, there's been a lot of ramp backlash lately. I've heard grumblings of fad-ism, that people only go crazy for them because they're tough to get, even during their unfairly short season. These grumblers also mention that these 'foodies' really only like ramps because it seems pretty cool to be ferociously hungry for something that hardly anyone knows about. A secret, stinky little club. (Let's take a quick minute to discuss how much I kind of detest the word 'foodie'. We're people. We eat food. Being excited about it shouldn't get a diminutive 'ie' tacked onto the end of it. There, I said it.)

Anyway. My adoration is undeterred.


I was taught to love onions, garlic and all things in the allium family by two people. My mother, who cooked them into nearly every meal I ever ate as a child, not to mention as a grown-up, and my father, who SHOCKED me by chomping straight into a raw green onion right before my eyes. I was never the same.

So, it is in their honor that I continue to go totally allium crazy at all times of year, but especially ramp season. We (Sidekick and I) started with butter grilled ramps atop one of his most impeccable burgers. He makes the best burgers, did I mention that?


I moved on swiftly to the tastiest deviled eggs.


I, inevitably, moved on to pickles, which were gobbled up all too soon.


I also have some ramp butter relaxing coolly in the freezer. Just waiting to delight us come fall and winter - if I can wait that long.


Ramp Deviled Eggs

12 large eggs
1/2 cup sour cream (plus a few spoons of crème fraiche if you have it)
2 teaspoons whole grain mustard
1 tsp. white wine vinegar
8 - 10 ramp tops (use the bulbs and lovely pink stems for something else, like PICKLES)
knob of butter
salt
white pepper
smoked paprika

Cover eggs with cold water by 1 1/2 inches in a 4- to 5-quart pot and bring to a rolling boil. As soon as the water boils, take the pot off the heat, cover tightly and let sit for exactly 12 minutes. Meanwhile, chop the ramp tops and saute with the butter and a pinch of salt until tender, but still bright green. Let them cool and TRY not to eat them all. When the eggs are finished, rinse them under lots of cold water to stop cooking.

Peel eggs and halve lengthwise. Carefully remove yolks and push them through a fine mesh strainer with your fingers over a mixing bowl (I know it sounds silly, but these will be the creamiest, lightest deviled eggs you've ever eaten). To the yolks, add sour cream, crème fraiche, mustard, ramps and stir with fork until combined well. Add the vinegar, mix gently. If you want the filling to be little looser, add a little more vinegar. Season to taste with salt and white pepper, then spoon into egg whites.

Sprinkle the smoked paprika over and serve them to grateful friends, significant others, or yourself with a cold Lillet.